— XVIII —
The goats slide into Ravenhill, their cloven hooves skidding across the icy rock. The Dwarves and I vault from the backs of the rams, slicing down Orcs as we go. I roll as I hit the ground, springing to my feet immediately and raising Angolain to the ready. I've been gripping the blade so intensely this past hour that my knuckles are stiff in a white, bloodless hold. The cold hits my skin, driven towards us from the icy river. It laces over my face, forming an uncomfortable barrier of condensation as my breath warms the fog.
Fíli arrives at my side, somersaulting off the back of his mount in the same way I just have. The blond Dwarf presses close to my side as we turn to the remaining Orc group. They run at us, weapons lifted and cries leaving their mangled lips. They don't get very far. We make quick work of the party, dispatching them neatly and quickly. When the Orcs fall dead at our feet and the hill falls silent, we turn to Thorin. I keep my chin raised, unflinching, as he storms to me. His face is dark and angry.
"What do you think you're doing?" The deep note of anger in his voice reverberates deeply in my chest. A thrum of disappointment, but not for me. No, that fear in Thorin's gaze is for what my presence on this hill means. The longer he looks at me, the softer his gaze grows.
"I will go down by your side," I answer him. I'm not sure I can take the melancholy in his gaze for much longer. I'm drowning in it, the blue of his eyes swallowing me whole. My chest aches dully.
"I can't let you do that." His voice is soft. Unwilling to yield.
"It's too late to send me away. You know this, Thorin."
"I will not have your blood on my hands!" He shouts in a sudden outburst. He stops short, the cry dying in his throat as his voice echoes around the ruins of Ravenhill. I step forward, taking Thorin's hand in mine for a quick moment.
"You do not turn your kin away. Have faith in me, melethor."
"Where is he?" Fíli asks suddenly, looking around the empty ruins. Thorin twists, searching for the pale Orc.
"It looks empty," Kíli mutters.
"I think Azog has fled," Dwalin growls. "That coward–"
"No, I don't think so," Thorin replies, holding out a hand. His face is serious now. I relax slightly as he makes no more argument to my presence. "Fíli, take..." The Dwarf pauses, glancing between Kíli and I. "Take your brother and Léra. Scout out the towers. Keep low and out of sight. If you see something, report back. Do not engage, do you understand?"
"We have company," Dwalin growls. He points at the hill, where figures are starting to swarm towards us. "Goblin mercenaries. No more than a hundred."
"We'll take care of them. Go!" Thorin tells us.
"Thorin–" The Dwarf turns to me, his eyes wide and dark with a swirling storm. His command is resounding and strong.
"Go!" I close my mouth, reacting to his strong words almost instinctively. My chin jerks curtly before I twist and follow Kíli.
Fíli leads us around an overhanging cliff along the frozen river. I slide across the ice carefully, keeping to the shadows of the rock face. I wish, in a sudden shock, for my cape so I can blend in better with the darkness. The fog is thick around us, though, acting as a shield as we creep low to the ground. The mist puts us at both an advantage and disadvantage. We're hidden, but so are our enemies.
Fíli breaks into a jog, his footsteps light against the ice. We follow him across the river, heading for a dark entrance in the rock face. Kíli and I enter the tunnel behind the blond Dwarf. The dark rock is covered with a shining sheen of ice, cold to the touch as I bring my hand along it. I close my eyes slightly, trying to feel vibrations through the stone. Nothing. Nothing except...
Kíli starts at a noise behind us. The scrabbling of rock against rock. His sword raises in a defensive position, his eyes narrowed. My hand is still pressed to the stone, but my head slowly turns towards the disturbance. A sinking feeling rolls through my body, dragging my heart downward in fear.
"Stay here," I tell the Dwarves in a low voice. Fíli is already stepping to my side.
"I won't let you go alone. Thorin would have my head," he whispers. "Kíli, search the lower levels. If you see anything, go back to Thorin immediately." The younger Dwarf starts to complain, but Fíli rests a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "I've got this, brother."
Kíli watches us leave without another word. Fíli and I step through the tunnel, winding around bends until the dark-haired Dwarf is out of our sight. These close quarters are not suited for Angolain, but I don't dare to sheath my blade.
Fíli presses to the cold wall, peering around a corner. His eyes widen and he starts to back up into me. I freeze, my senses firing in an immediate and urgent warning. I reach for him too late as the orange flicker of torchlight reaches us. Orcs, approaching in leaping bounds and loud shrieks of glee as they see us. I turn, ready to run. Orcs behind us. Closing in.
Surrounded.
Fíli's back presses to mine as we face the lines. In the narrow tunnel, only one Orc at a time can approach us. We keep close to each other, fighting the two lines with a desperate, trapped fervor. My movements are cramped, my arm unable to wield Angolain to my full extent. The Orcs keep coming. An endless, streaming line.
My hits turn more desperate as the Orcs pile up before us. Fíli fights hard against me until an Orc kicks my leg out, catching me off-guard and taking advantage of my tired and pained limbs. My knee gives out, sending me to the floor. A blade is at my throat, the chipped metal biting and cruel as it presses into my skin harshly. The Orc above me shoves me into Fíli, warning the Dwarf in grinding black speech. My friend freezes, his body stiff with fear. I can practically smell the coppery emotion pouring from him. My own blood runs cold as the Orcs start to chortle with unhinged laughter.
The Orcs yanks us to our feets, dragging us harshly through the tunnels. I have the good sense to sheath Angolain against my back before we're shoved into the grey fog, lest the sword be taken from me. I stumble against the ice as my arm is wrenched forward relentlessly, Fíli tripping next to me as the pack leads us up the ruins of Ravenhill.
I falter as we reach the top. Someone is waiting for us, the pale figure shrouded in mist at first. My knees go weak with pure, saturated fear as the shroud shifts away.
Azog the Defiler is waiting for us.
The pale Orc reaches for Fíli, taking him from the jeering pack. Fíli kicks and thrashes as the giant Orc drags him forward. Hands are still on my arms, my back. They push me behind Azog, before shoving me roughly to my knees at the edge of the broken tower. My eyes follow the fog as it clears slightly, revealing the great height between this ruin and the ground. The river is weaving through that space, the ice a blue-white expanse.
Thorin is standing at the edge of the water. His eyes lift at the noise of the Orcs. He sees us in one splintering and painful moment. I see his heart cleave in two as he steps forward. A desperate, strangled noise escapes his throat. He's too far away. There is height and the river between us.
"Which one do you want to die first?" Azog growls, his Westron deeply accented as he addresses Thorin. "This one?" He heaves Fíli into the air, his grip on the back of his jacket restricting the Dwarf's movements. He kicks wildly anyway, a snarl set on his lips. Azog lifts his arm, the blade protruding from it pointing directly at me. "Or your pretty human?"
Thorin looks like he's going to fall to his knees. He sways in such shock that I fear he's going to keel backwards. His eyes are on me. Wide, and filled with fear. Such deep, debilitating fear. The terror makes my face twitch with the emotions I'm trying to hide. I look down at the dark rock between my knees, swallowing heavily and turning myself to stone again.
But Azog sees it. He sees the way Thorin is looking at me. He tosses Fíli aside, sending the Dwarf sliding across the damp floor. His snarl is filled with glee as he stops over me. I feel him behind me. The blade is in my peripheral vision, glinting with an evil light. I gather my wits, my thoughts flickering with a plan as he reaches down. He lifts me to my feet with one hand, his fingers gathering cruelly around my braid. I make no noise as my hair jerks painfully. I rise easily until he shifts his grasp to the back of my armor. I kick out at the Orc as my feet leave the ground, my hands moving at the same time. The daggers slip free from my belt in a fluid movement and I slash wildly at Azog. He laughs, dodging the blows with ease. His bladed arm lifts, catching the knives and knocking them from my hands. I wince as my fingers meet the flat side of the blade, the force sending the daggers skittering across the rock.
"Go," I finally choke out at Thorin. "Go, or he'll kill you."
Listen to me, Thorin. You're worth nothing to your people dead. Run, you fool! Run!
He doesn't move, his face still caught in that terrified surprise. Dwalin moves forward, his face dark with anger. I open my mouth, starting to snarl out a warning to him in that bellowing summon I have perfected over these past weeks. It never leaves my lips.
Something cold slides into my body. My mouth catches in surprise as I look down. Azog is sliding his blade through the chainmail on my side. Slowly, as if he relishes this moment. So, so slowly. The ice drags through my skin, filling me with a dreadful cold. It doesn't hurt.
It's just cold.
The blade leaves my side as suddenly as it entered. Azog roars in surprise, his hand releasing me. I drop to the ground with a groan, watching as a familiar blond figure leaps at the Orc. Fíli is diving at the pale figure, one of my discarded daggers clenched tightly in his fist. He cries out as he launches forward, slashing at Azog's exposed side. I roll away from them, reaching for my other blade from where it lies on the stone. By the time I push onto my knees, it's too late.
I'm too late to save Fíli.
Azog's blade stabs Fíli through the back, cutting easily through his thin leather jerkin and the chainmail beneath. I cry out, rage flooding my fingertips with warmth as the dagger leaves my hand.
Too late. Too late.
I'm too late.
The light is already gone from his eyes. Fíli, always smiling. Always warm. My friend.
The giant Orc's keening cry of pain splits the air as my blade embeds deep into the joint of his shoulder. He reels back, away from the edge of the broken tower. Away from Fíli. I gasp loudly, pain finally flooding my senses. I fall slowly, my shaking hands moving to grasp at my side as I drop onto my back.
Faintly, as if from a great distance, I hear the shouts of Dwarves. Kíli is crying out, his voice a deep, mournful bellow. Thorin is bellowing for his nephew, his voice quivering with rage and sadness. Dwalin is calling out after them. The only voice of reason. My head rolls to the side against the damp stone. The pale Orc is walking away from me, his arm hanging down rather limply. Black blood trails down his skin. It falls to the ground, every drop amplified by tenfold in my wavering senses.
Then I'm alone in the ruins. I struggle to sit, breathing heavily. I look at Fíli, groaning as I scrape my way across the ground to him. I sink against the rock wall next to him, shaking heavily as I reach for his body. Hot tears fall down my cheek as my hand closes around his.
"Fíli," I whisper. I wish I could say there was hope in my heart that he would respond. I know he won't.
He doesn't. His chest does not rise with life. His soul is long gone from this world. I fight the sobs that want to rise from my throat. They burn, a primal urge to wail into the thick air and tell the world a lamenting story of my grief. Instead, I lean against him and the rock, dread settling into my heart. I feel at my side. At the wound on my waist. My hand comes away red with blood.
A lot of blood. Too much.
There's red everywhere. Soaking into my pants and my tunic. My hands are covered with it. I think I'm going to be sick. I rest my head against the rough stone, trying to regulate my heaving breaths. My eyes shut, blocking out the pools of blood. The sign of death.
I don't want to die here. I don't want to die alone.
"Léra!" I flinch at the voice, instinctively cowering away from it in the fear that more Orcs have arrived to finish me off. Instead of the grimy, ruthless creatures, Bilbo Baggins appears in front of me. He pops into existence from seemingly thin air. In another time, I might have jumped in surprise. Instead, I sag in relief. The Hobbit's small sword clatters to the ground as he falls to my side. "Oh, my. Wow. Oh. Ok," he stammers as his hands raise to my bloody sides.
"Bilbo," I choke out, dropping my head back again. The Halfling's appearance has stirred something within me. I take a deep breath, summoning a hidden reserve of energy to my limbs. He watches as I start to surge to my feet, struggling to get my legs under me. "Bilbo, help me up. I need to find Thorin."
"You should lie still. You're hurt," Bilbo answers. He's staring at my hands. At the blood covering me. Mine and Fíli's. He's avoiding the body of the Dwarf, keeping his eyes fixed on me.
"I can't," I gasp out. I grit my teeth as my hands scrape against the rough stone wall. I cry out in pain as I start to fall back down, my legs weak. Bilbo's arm goes under mine. He pushes against my uninjured side until I'm standing shakily. I lean heavily against him, my head swimming.
"He needs you alive, Léra."
"And I him," I groan. The world blackens for a moment. The Hobbit looks hesitant for a second before he reaches into his pocket. He withdraws a small object and holds it out.
"Take this. It'll help."
I look at the golden ring he offers to me in the palm of his hand. I reach for it, frowning at the sudden shift in the air as the item is revealed. A strange, buzzing tension fills my head. I brush the cool metal with my fingers, but the very second I do the world splinters into a flash of surging orange flame. I flinch away, shaking my head.
"I will be better without it. There is a fell energy about that thing."
Bilbo nods. He almost looks...relieved as I reject the ring. He helps me tighten the straps of my armor as I gesture to them and wraps a torn piece of my tunic under the straps. I hold my hand over the darkened cloth for a moment, whispering a quick healing spell. The Elvish flows shakily from my lips. It does little to the wound, for my skills are hardly advanced. All it does is slow the blood flow, but it's enough. I slowly shake my limbs out, letting energy flood down to my fingertips. I will not rest here. This will not be the place where I fall.
I crouch in front of the Hobbit, my hand lifting to his shoulder. I look deep into his eyes.
"You are a good friend, Bilbo Baggins. The best, in fact. Stay here, and keep yourself safe. Watch over Fíli, one last time."
Bilbo nods. He watches me limp towards the sound of clashing blades. The Hobbit sinks next to Fíli as I glance back one last time. My heart tugs with sadness, but I know I cannot stop yet. The time for rest will come. Right now, I am moving to avenge my fallen friend. I move to protect my king.
I hear the roar of Orcs, but underneath their cries is something else. Something loud and screeching. The flapping of hundreds of wings is approaching, the screams echoing through the fog. I crouch, staring in shock at the bats that break from the mist. Their large, membranous wings beat the thick air into swirls as they soar overhead. Giant, surging beasts. Bloodthirsty and terrible, there's no doubt about that.
Behind the bats come Orcs. An entire pack that surges down the wall, breaking through the mist and sprinting for me. I draw Angolain, the blade ringing into the air with a familiar and resounding song. I grit my teeth and prepare to fight. I'm alone. Outnumbered.
A resounding shout comes from my side before the Orcs reach me. Dwalin rushes the beasts, his battleaxe rising. He doesn't spare me a glance as his weapon raises against the pack, too focused is he on fighting.
My strength is sapped, draining as we dispatch the Orcs. Dwalin turns to me as the last Orc falls before my feet. His eyes take in my bloody appearance, the dark liquid that stains my light mithril armor and darkens my skin. I stagger slightly and he reaches out to steady me. The Dwarf still doesn't speak as his thick arms wrap around me, holding me close in a tight hug.
I feel the entirety of the solemn Dwarf's emotions in that embrace. His sorrow, shaking through his shoulders, and his relief that I'm still standing. I pat his back once, relaxing slightly at the gesture. It fills me with a new and bright warmth.
"Come, lass," he murmurs to me. "Let's go find him."
At his words, my stomach twinges.
Tug tug.
I swallow nervously as I turn towards the sensation. Our eyes follow the sound of fighting, meaning that we both catch the sudden figure that slides through the newly approaching Orcs. The blond Elf, blades out, kills the entire pack with ease. He rises from cutting down the last one, his sharp gaze flickering to us.
"Little Wolf," the Elf prince calls to me as he approaches. I sag against Dwalin, my hand cautiously rising to my side. He follows the gesture, his eyes taking in the rest of my appearance. The slight smile drops from his lips, replaced with concern. "You're hurt."
"I need to reach Thorin." My eyes skate past him, to the tall Orcs crawling over Ravenhill. "And I can't get there alone."
Legolas doesn't answer me, but Dwalin hoists his weapon into the air with a deep growl.
"You have my axe, Zirakkund."
The Elf tilts his head slightly, looking at the Dwarf and I. He doesn't answer me yet, but I can see his thoughts whirring.
"Legolas, please. If you know anything of love, then please. Help us." I surge forward, away from Dwalin. My hand closes around a fold in a green tunic as I look up at him. I speak to him in Elvish, my words rushed and pleading. "The life is draining from me. I can't die without him, Legolas." The harsh gaze of the prince breaks. His hand rises and drags the loose strands of hair away from my face.
"I will help you save the Dwarf," he tells me. "But only for the pureness of your heart, Little Wolf. You inspire me."
"Thank you," I breathe as he pulls away. He turns, drawing his bow in one fluid motion. He leaps neatly onto a raised part of the hill, gesturing to the frozen river below. There are large Orcs racing across the ice, following the figure of Thorin.
"Go," he tells us. "I do not have enough arrows to take them all." Dwalin and I break into a run towards the ice and the Orcs, accompanied by the flying shafts of Legolas's arrows. The tips hit true, taking down Orc after Orc as we fall into the frey.
I separate from Dwalin as Angolain rises and falls against the Orcs that stand between Thorin and I. The sword slashes and stabs, parries and slices. I muster what waning strength I have to fight on. To fight my way to him. To fight for him. My eyes flicker to the figure, my rage growing at the Orcs that try to stop us from reuniting. He engages in his own battles, seemingly unaware that I'm so close.
Tug tug.
The Orc fighting Thorin hits him down with a backwards blow, its giant mace raised still as Thorin slides across the ice. The Dwarf's blade skitters away from him, leaving him defenseless. I react, surging against the Orcs near me until they fall in a pile of dismembered limbs and decapitated heads. Black blood drips from Angolain, the liquid slashed across my face from the force of my blows.
Thorin is on his back at the edge of the ice, the Orc standing over him with its weapon raised. I'm out of daggers, and Thorin is about to die. I'm sprinting down the ice, slipping and sliding the whole way, when the tip of a wide blade appears through the back of the Orc. As the tall beast starts to fall sideways over the edge of the river, Thorin's hand wraps around the handle of the weapon. It slides from the body of the Orc as it falls into the chasm. Thorin lifts the sword into the air, his eyes wide as they take in the fine Elven blade.
It's Orcrist.
Legolas.
I fall to my knees at his side, sliding against the ice in my desperation. Over the edge, watching us from a suspended length of stone, is Legolas. He nods at me once, silent words passing between us. Apologies for our squabble all those days ago. He saved Thorin, and for it the dark tension between us is gone. He twists, turning to race after another Orc.
Thorin sits up, rising slowly with the blade still in his hand. I'm panting, my breath wheezing out. My energy is low, almost spent. But when Thorin touches me, I'm electrified. He helps me to my feet, his hand staying against my arm as he stares at me.
"Léra," he breathes. My gaze travels past him. My knees quiver as the mist shifts.
Azog the Defiler is standing on the ice several hundred lengths from us. Waiting, yet again. The pale Orc's lips are parted in a snarl of annoyance.
"Thorin," I warn him softly. He looks away from my face quickly. His jaw snaps together and he steps away from me. I hold out my arm, stopping him from going any farther.
"Let me do as I promised in Imladris. I swore an oath to you. My sword is yours, and that means I will protect you to the death," I tell him, lifting Angolain into the air.
"No," he tells me. There is no command in his tone. There is only the dread of knowing what our fates will be. Such a deep, mournful sadness in that single word.
"When have I ever listened?" I answer, smiling sadly.
"He'll kill you," Thorin grasps my arm tightly. Desperation in his eyes, in his touch. Oh, so desperate. I turn to him, gently touching his bloodied and dirty face. My thumb drags down his skin, brushing lightly against his beard.
"Let me protect you. Let me spill my blood for you. Do not be guilty over my death, should it come to pass. Do not mourn, for I shall leave this world knowing I did what is right."
"I can't lose you, Léra. I will lose myself."
"I will always be with you," I promise him. I lift his hand from my arm and press it against his chest, where his heart is thundering in a steady, sonorous beat. "Now go," I whisper. "Go and live another day to lead your people to glory."
My hand drops from his as I turn to face the pale Orc. My eyes do not turn to Thorin again. I know, if I look at him, I will never be able to step away. Azog is sneering at us, waiting as I approach him with my sword bared. Behind, there is the sound of marching feet. Of an army. A thousand Orcs marching to ruin the forces of Man, Elf, and Dwarf. My heart sinks at the realization that this is the end of it all. This is the day that Middle Earth begins to fall.
The pale Orc charges me.
I duck every swing of the massive rock chained to his hand. The stone crashes into the ice around me, keeping me at a distance. I am unable to inch close enough to needle him with Angolain. I keep on my toes, dancing around him. My flitting, random movements annoy both myself and the Orc. Neither of us are gaining ground, but we also aren't losing it.
His rock smashes into the ice over and over again until it finally cracks against the frigid surface. The lines race towards me, glass splintered from a pebble. The great fractals surround us until he hits again and the ice splinters. The rock lodges in place, embedded in the frozen water. Azog tugs on the stone, his eyes moving to glare at me. He lunges, kept on a tight leash by the chain connecting him to the rock. I avoid his blade, responding in like with Angolain. He hisses in rage, growling and growing angrier by the minute as the tip of my blade drags tiny slices against his skin. I can't place any better hits for fear of his blade finding my side again, and my limbs are weak. His blood runs black from the cuts, but my attempts are useless. I'm just angering him, and with each minute that passes, the slower I grow.
He pauses suddenly, the rage stilling in his movements as something draws his eye away. I hear the resounding and steady beat of wings. A familiar sound, so different to the rapid flap of the bats. This was different. A gust of wind sails against my hair. The breath of hope.
I watch the eagles fly over our heads, their golden arrival bringing the sun with them. The fog is burning away as the great birds launch into the approaching army. I watch them, a smile growing on my face.
A slice of pain rips down my face. I reel from the new burn, crying out and lifting my hand to the sensation. My gaze turns red from the blood that gushes over my eyes. Blinded, I have no way to move away from the cold hand of the Orc that wraps around my throat. Angolain falls from my grasp, kicked out of my hand by the cruel, hard boot of Azog. The sword goes flying across the ice, landing against the far bank. I gasp, struggling as the Orc lifts me into the air. My legs kick out hopelessly and I scrabble at his hands with mine, clawing desperately as my breath chokes off.
Azog drops me onto my back. Hard. He slams me into the ice with so much force I hear it crack around me. Or maybe that was the sound of my shoulder blades splintering against the hardness of my mithril armor.
I gasp and cough as the breath is driven from my lungs. I don't have a chance to regain it, for his heavy boot steps onto my chest. He keeps me pressed there, as if I had the strength to rise again. I don't.
Azog's hand, still chained to the rock and clinking with the sound of the metal links, reaches down. With his blade, he slices through the ties that hold the mithril armor to my body. He steps back, tearing the pale silver from me violently. I jolt as it drags away painfully. The chestplate goes flying to the other side of the river. It leaves the most vulnerable part of my body exposed to the cold air, with just the chainmail keeping his blade from entering my chest.
Azog the Defiler lifts me again, his fist dragging me into the air by the front of my tunic.
This time, I don't fear the cold bite of death.